


Button-up

by rudygosia



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 17:19:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13194876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rudygosia/pseuds/rudygosia
Summary: It's hard to face the demons of the past, but with the right person - everything is possible.





	Button-up

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Please feel free to point out any grammatical or stylistic mistakes, as constructive criticism is always most welcomed. Thanks for reading.

The laughter and our out of tune singing mixes with the cheesy pop song as we try to sing through the city sounds. We’re sitting in my new apartment, well, my new rented apartment - but rented with my own money - already contradicting what some said when I dropped out of high school. Granted, it’s not a very impressive place, but it’s mine, with all the dust, the loose cables and the stuck kitchen window that won’t fully close. Granted, we’re sitting on the floor, right next to a pile of books, some shirts, an old pair of roller blades and a bunch of my notebooks. The record player I rescued out of my parents’ basement before they knocked down the house keeps skipping every second song and we ran out of things to throw at it so it restarts. Neither of us cares though, we even sing along with the repeated lines, laughing out loud, buzzed on the cheap wine we chug straight from the bottle. Neither of us cares that the wine tastes like awful, sour raspberries because it’s the same cheap wine we used to pinch from 7-Eleven to get juiced on back in high school. It’s the same wine I spilled that one day on your bra. Neither of us cares that it’s chilly because of that cracked kitchen window, that we only have Jaffa Cakes to eat, or that the only records I have are full of nineties pop. None of this matters now because even though neither of us planned this, here we are, together, following the dreams we have never even thought we had, And we both know every moment counts.

It happens when Britney’s "Hit Me Baby One More Time" finishes with a double last verse, and it happens so quickly that I only register the clink of the glass bottle hitting the floor. A hushed swish of your dress cuts my thoughts short and I shiver slightly when your hands spring up without more warning and grab the collar of my shirt. I shiver as they lightly touch my collarbones and move to the buttons. I seriously don't know how you can do it without looking. I always need to look at what I'm doing; I need to look at the pages when I write or at the keyboard when I type. Not you though. I remember you writing down the grocery list one time and you looked at every fourth word or so. I smile at the stupid memory and you tilt your head at me, raising your eyebrows. You always knew how to lighten the mood, too. "Something funny?" you whisper in a serious tone, but you don’t mean it. You don't stop what you're doing either, your hands traveling down the button trail.

I'm really surprised at how calm and collected you are, with everything you found out. God knows I’m everything but, but the heaviness of the moment keeps me grounded. You keep me grounded. When you reach the middle of my shirt through your hands stop but not suddenly, not too suddenly anyway, so I don't feel the stress that hides behind your grey eyes. You keep looking at me but I don't feel pressured. You wait one more second for my silent approval and when I don’t run away, you continue. With the seventh or eighth clasp, I lost count already, your hand slips and you have to look down now. I muzzle a smirk, I know you do the same, and for one second the air feels lighter.

When your hands reach the last button, I sense the hesitation. No matter how calm I thought you were, I know that you too are affected by this. Contrary to your reputation, I know you haven’t slept with so many people, but I know why you stuck to the story for so long. After all, we’re exactly the same. I mean, we are different, but we’re the same. We have our own self-preservation techniques and I never hated you for yours. Well, maybe at first, right after we met - your intimidation strategy was spot on.

You wait a little longer and, as cliche as it sounds, I swear I can hear your heartbeat matched with the faint sound of Kajagoogoo, as the whispery, metric pounding that surrounds us must either be your heartbeat or the sound of my thoughts and fears rattling in my brain, fighting for dominance. For a split second, a new notion crosses my mind and suddenly I reminiscence about how we met when you not so casually tried to carry my backpack for me to show off your chivalry. I never wanted you to haul my baggage for me and this, what we’re doing right now, this exact moment - this sure feels like I’m finally giving you that stupid backpack.

I inhale deeply when you slide off my shirt and let it fall behind my back. I think it's actually the first time I forget the burden of what hides behind the fabric, the first time I don’t think about the stories from my past and the stamps on my body. Maybe it’s because you don’t look down at my bare chest, but instead lock your eyes with mine. I don’t see pity, I don’t see anger, for the first time I feel like there should be no expectation of what would happen next. I flinch a little when your hand moves. A warm finger touches the scar and for the first time, I don’t pull away. I don’t back down when it traces my bare, thick skin and travels down my stomach, drawing up the map of scattered lines along my chest. “Where is this one from?” I hear you ask in a low, careful voice. I finally look down, but this time I need to. I need to look so I can pinpoint the right story to the right scar.


End file.
